Ode to a Drunken Mexican Woman

She woke up every morning at 4am to make me homemade tortillas on the cumal, and cried out in ecstasy in Spanish, which I mostly did not understand, when we made love. Those are the two things I miss most. She laughed when I cussed her relatives in Texmex. She drank until blackout for days at a time and felt horrible when the ride was over but made fidello to make it up to me. We sometimes drank until Sunrise. I often had to carry her in from the car to put her in bed. More often than that, I woke to her crying, swearing that she’d be a better woman for me. If I had a dollar for every time that she threw up on me, I’d have about ten dollars, but, if I had a dollar for every time that I opened my lunch to find a note that said, “for mi amore”, I’d have closer to six hundred. I thought I loved her. Her mind was an unsolvable labyrinth that I got lost in for nine years…but at least I ate well…and goddamn she was pretty. I regret nothing, but she significantly scarred my heart, maybe more than everything else.